Can I Count the Ways
by Dr. SecretAgentMan
Summary: In the midst of their reunion in The Empty Hearse, Sherlock revisits all the memories he's made with Lestrade. Featuring Papa!Lestrade and an OC. Spoilers for 3x01. Mentions of Suicide. This is a oneshot.


**Disclaimer**: I do not own Sherlock or any characters associated with it. Obviously. Or else this wouldn't be a fanfic, now would it?

**Warning**: Spoilers for 3x01- The Empty Hearse (and) some cussing.

Papa!Lestrade ahead. Have fun my cupcakes!

XXXXXXX

Sherlock doesn't know what to expect from Lestrade. A punch, maybe. A fuck you? Definitely. But what will truly happen; Sherlock doesn't know.

Lestrade has always been his wild card. Insanely predictable, but at times surprising. Loyal for longer than even his flatmate, with a silent air of 'father' Sherlock's never been able to shake. There are things about the man he'll never know, all first names aside-but then again, what son really knows their father as anything other than 'Dad'- so when after all these years he sees him, speaks to him, finally alludes to the fact that he's not actually dead; there's apprehension settling in his gut. Not so much as with John- no one can match up to John- but it's still there, slowly creeping up his throat.

"Oh, you bastard."

Well, he's certainly expected that.

The hug though. The scent of cigarettes and police-grade coffee and that crappy aftershave he got him as a thank you–he'd never admit it. Sherlock _bloody_ Holmes doesn't say thank you's- are all fogging up his senses. He's enwrapped in something so remarkably Lestrade that he doesn't know how to respond. Not really. Not without screwing something up.

Memories he's hidden; deleted; eluded; come rushing back. Everything slams full force into his brain, all in flawless HDMI resolution; the space behind his eyes playing back times back before John topped his speed-dial and the name Moriarty made him want to slam his fist into a wall.

Him and Lestrade meeting back when the man had more brown in his hair than gray. A police officer trusting the words of a seemingly deranged druggie, who'd just barely crawled his way into the crime scene. The birth of an unlikely partnership -never friendship, Sherlock didn't do friendships-. The start of something new. Exciting.

For the first time in a long time, Sherlock wasn't bored.

Him showing up at crime scene after crime scene, but only if Lestrade was there. He'd only work with Lestrade. Talking in a bored, drawling voice because it both exasperated and amused the graying man next to him. Because that combination lead to fondness and fondness lead to that quick ruffle of his hair when no one was looking. And for some odd reason, savoring that touch; waiting, hoping, _wanting_, a new murder to take place so he can stand and talk and berate with the Detective who'd started chipping through his no emotions rule.

For the first time in a long time, Sherlock was looking forward.

Him staring despaired at Lestrade –keep up the mask; dammit. Don't feel. Don't feel- when the older man had told him that he could not keep working with him anymore. Not like this. Holding onto the _only if _the man presented in front of him as if he were drowning and it was the only thing keeping him afloat.

For the first time in a long time, Sherlock thought about getting clean.

Him showing up at the Lestrade's door, three weeks into withdrawl –he was not spending another hour at Mycroft's. No way-. The family taking him in, with much persistence from Lestrade. Hands, fatherly hands, rubbing circles along his back as he retched pitifully, over and over and over again. Danny's soft eyes- Lestrade's child had always been Danny, never Daniel or Dan- peering into his, clasping his hand during the scary parts of movies, hugging him when he came home from school. Smiles everywhere, even during the worst of the symptoms. Pointing out the wife's infidelity –she was never anything more than The Wife. She didn't even deserve that- because he didn't know how anyone could hurt these two wonderful people in front of him.

For the first time in a long time, Sherlock was being cared for.

Him actually holding down a job. A half-tug of a smile pulling at his lips as he showed Lestrade his first real earnings, even if it was the man's department who gave it to him. Hour after hour spent pouring over crime scenes, or chasing criminals down alleyways, or being full-named by Lestrade after he'd done something exasperating. Finally moving out of the Lestrade's couch and into his own place. Scoffing at the incredulous expressions the detective sent his way every time he had to wade through experiments to get to his kitchen cabinet. Laughing, actually laughing, at Lestrade's face after he made the mistake of deciding that dinner might actually be hidden in the fridge. Years wasting away in a goldfish's version of happiness, and deciding, he was almost ok with it.

For the first time in a long time, Sherlock was content.

Him reeling in shock after he heard the news. Head spinning because it couldn't be true. It just couldn't. He was too good. Too happy. Too perfect. His breath coming in rapid little gasps, as he ran towards his office, blocking out everyone and everything because it wasn't important. Not anymore.

For the first time in a long time, Sherlock was scared.

Him bursting through the doors of Lestrade's office, looking up at the man who he knew to be stronger than anyone. Begging him with his eyes to tell him it wasn't true. Please tell me it's not true. Holding his breath as he watched him look up with red-rimmed eyes, despair written clearly all over his face, looking haunted and much, much older than Sherlock had ever seen him. Because it was true. Because Danny –not Danny, Dan. It is –_was_- Dan now- had killed himself, and neither man was willing to say it aloud.

For the first time in a long time, Sherlock didn't know what to do.

Him being hugged by Lestrade for the first time. Freezing as the older man pulled him roughly towards himself, and buried his silver hair in Sherlock's shoulder, a shaky cry of anguish breaking through. Arms held tight by his side, Sherlock stood, feeling more useless than he's ever felt, as his friend and mentor and father and God-knows how many other things, poured out sob after sob into his neck, hands fisted in his shirt. Watching as he poured out his grief over the loss of his son.

For the first time in a long time, Sherlock wished he believed in a God.

Him years and years later, watching the video feed from the back of Mycroft's car. Eyes trained on the set that was playing what was recorded just hours ago. He watched Lestrade had walked out of his cab, seen his body, covered his mouth, and held back a sob that surely would have shook Sherlock's resolve to leave. Grief and pain etched itself into the DI's face, worn into years of creases and wrinkles. A desperate hand clawed through silver hair as the man sank himself to the ground, desperately trying to retain the tears that wear already slinking down his face. It was only then that Sherlock truly realized what he had done. He had taken away the man's second son, and torn off the bandage that was holding old wounds so steady in place.

For the first time in a long time, Sherlock let out a quiet sob of grief.

Now, standing in the embrace of the man he had hurt and seen hurt so many times over, he could do nothing but hope that this was enough. For all the apologies he could have given right now, nothing could measure up to the fact that he had come back.

And he sure as hell wasn't leaving again.

XXXXXXX

Hope you liked it my cupcakes!

Don't be depressed. I didn't mean for it to come out this depressing, but wow. This is...this is pretty bad. Therapy is likely in my future. :P

Please R&R and tell me if you would like to see more Papa!Lestrade, Danny, or 'dorable kid!Lock feels!


End file.
